


The Journal of Dr. McKay

by sardonicsmiley



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Humor, M/M, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-01
Updated: 2005-05-01
Packaged: 2020-12-31 14:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicsmiley/pseuds/sardonicsmiley





	The Journal of Dr. McKay

### One

Rodney pushed into the unused residential room, looking for some peace and quiet to try to decipher the hieroglyphs that Dr. Weir had pushed on him, with his head down, already fully engrossed in the symbols. He vaguely heard the door shut behind him, and looked up for a split second to try to find a chair, looked down, then jerked his head back up and stared. After a moment he became aware that he was holding his breath, and turned on a heel back towards the door, hoping to escape before he was noticed.

He had his hand on the keypad, a sigh of relief building in his throat, when a deep rough voice informed him, "I heard you come in, McKay." He thought: I'm not a bad person, I don't deserve this. After a moment of considering simply charging through the doorway and running for his life, he squared his shoulders and instead turned to face the other two occupants of the room.

They stood in an embrace in the middle of the room, and the speaker, tall dark and burly Ronon Dex arched an eyebrow in McKay's general direction. The kiss that Rodney had walked into the middle of had apparently abated, but Ronon's arms were still locked around the smaller figures waist, thumbs rubbing slow lazy circles on the other persons back. Both of them were staring at McKay, and the doctor watched the deep red of a blush begin to creep up the pale skin of the smaller figures neck. They were still embracing, and he wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to be handling this situation, so he said the first thing that came to his mind, "Does Dr. Weir know?"

For a moment, silence, as he stares at the interlocked couple, and they stare back at him, one set of pale blue eyes, one set of dark brown. Finally the smaller figure sighs and grimaces, prompting Ronon's arms to tighten their hold, and says, "Look, McKay, this isn't...I mean, probably this would be not the best thing to be spreading around, you know?" Ronon takes this opportunity to lean forward and plant a kiss on the smaller figures temple, while at the same time managing to shift enough to flash the gun on his hip at Rodney.

What had seemed to be a fleeting headache ten minutes ago was blossoming into a full fledged migraine, and Dr. McKay found himself wishing that he had sought out the quiet of his own room instead of this one. He clears his throat, nods, and backs into the door. Reassured by its solidness behind him, he clears his throat again, and says,

"Right, perfectly understandable. My lips are sealed." And with that he turns, slams the door open, and flees, wondering where he could get the mental equivalent of steel wool.

As he heads away, the door sliding closed behind him, he hears Ronon's deep baritone, "I thought you locked the door," and then the telltale clock of the lock clicking into place. It's only once he gets back to his own room that he realizes that he left the hieroglyphs back in the room with the odd couple. He sighs, and bangs his head lightly against the wall.

A/N: So...did you guess? Did you? Did you? 

### Two

Rodney McKay couldn't explain his nervous jumpiness, at least not in any suitable manner. True, it was the first time he'd been to see Dr. Weir since...well, since The Incident-which even in his mind was capitalized-but he was a grown man. Not to mention that there was absolutely no reason for Elizabeth to ask about that. Really, there was no conceivable way she could know, or even suspect. After all, as far as Rodney knew, no one had ever guessed that John was interested in anything other than women. Rodney sighed.

He was not being mature about this.

For the last two days he had avoided Sheppard, Ronon, and Elizabeth like the plague. It had been a surprisingly easy exercise, especially since Ronon and John seemed just as intent on avoiding him, and Elizabeth seemed to be perpetually arguing with Caldwell. Which brought up a whole swell of interesting rumors. Lately it seemed that any gossip Rodney overheard revolved around Dr. Weir and the older military man. Everyone seemed to agree that the two really needed to just screw and get it over with.

McKay wasn't entirely sure what he thought about that, but then he knew next to nothing about women. For all he knew screaming and being inordinately bitchy around a man was a sign of affection. At this point he had to admit that he really didn't care, one bizarre relationship around Atlantis was all he felt he could handle at the moment. He heaved a sigh, and cursed the hieroglyphs that were the reason he had to go see Elizabeth in the first place. In fact, now that he thought about it, all the recent unpleasant drama in his life could be blamed on the hieroglyphs.

He was still a good fifteen feet from her door when Elizabeth's voice rushed out to meet him. "Don't you walk away from me!"

He can picture her, then, in his mind's eye. Her shoulders will be squared, her arms crossed, her head cocked just slightly to the side, one thin eyebrow arched, her lips just slightly parted. And he knows who she's talking to, can picture the tall, older man's straight back, dark eyes and scowl. Only Caldwell manages to get Elizabeth Weir this riled up, or, in fact, riled up at all. As Rodney creeps forward against his own better judgement, he wonders if perhaps everyone is right about the two of them.

He comes to a stop at the edge of her doorway, his back plastered against the wall, his breathing coming in quick, shallow, bursts. As the silence in the room stretches he takes a deep breath, holds it, and cocks his head around the door. Weir is, indeed, in the exact position he had pictured her in, her dark eyes glued to the other figure in the room. Caldwell is half-turned away from her, staring at a wall, his fists clenched and his jaw muscles working.

The silence stretches as Rodney's lungs burn from his held breath, and then Caldwell exhales his own breath in a huff and says, "Dr. Weir..." There is something about the way he says her name that makes Rodney McKay's eyes widen, some instinctual understanding that dawns on the good doctor through the cloud of his inability to fully understand relationships. Caldwell continues, "You've made it perfectly clear you want me gone, and yet now you want me to stay in this room. Please, doctor, can you clarify for me what, exactly, it is you want?"

The tone of his voice, the way his eyes jump off the wall and latch onto Elizabeth, send chills up Rodney's spine. He wonders, if it did that much to him, what it must be doing to Elizabeth, it also makes him wonder if what he is doing could possibly be considered voyeurism. His lungs burn. Elizabeth's other eyebrow jumps up, and her arms unfold and go to her hips. There is fire dancing in her eyes.

"I want you." The words seem to jump out of her mouth, and then hang in the suddenly still air, and her eyes widen as she rushes to add something to the damning statement, something to recall it, to blunt it, to make it unsaid. "I wa-"

Apparently, though, she had taken to long, and as Rodney watches, his body wanting desperately to suck in fresh new air, Caldwell closes the space between himself and Weir. As Rodney watches, feeling lecherous, Caldwell slides one hand onto her hip, the other into her soft red curls, and then they are kissing. Elizabeth's hands flutter for a moment, and then crawl their way onto Caldwell's chest, where her fingers burrow into his shirt.

Rodney ducks back behind the door, exhales, inhales, and whips back to his voyeurism.

They are still kissing, but as he watches they break apart, something less than an inch separating them, and her eyes flutter open. Caldwell starts to say, "I'm so-"

He is cut off when she says, so firmly that it is definitely an order, "Again." The two are staring at each other, still so close there is barely any space between them, and McKay thinks to himself that he really needs to learn more about women. And then Caldwell is ducking his mouth to hers, and her arms are winding around his neck, and they stumble into a wall, what is most definitely a groan escaping from the region of Elizabeth's throat...

And McKay, who has been ignoring the spots swimming behind his eyes, feels his knees lock, and makes quite a racket when he blacks out and hits the floor. 

### Three

He wakes up to swearing.

It is swearing in a soft, slightly mumbled voice, definitely feminine, but is nonetheless some of the most inventive he has ever heard. A particularly long and vicious stream makes him jerk into a sitting position, a complaint on the tip of his tongue... His forehead slams into something hard and unyielding. It is this, and the accompanying sound of a snort of laughter that finally drives it home to him that he is not in his room.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty."

He cracks an eye open cautiously, takes in the pale walls, the small beds, and the assorted sharp objects strewn around him. The medbay. Because he had, in what he was sure he would later recall as one of the more humiliating moment of his life, fainted. In front of Elizabeth. And Caldwell. He wonders absently who was talking to him earlier. He closes his eye, flops backwards, and opens his eyes again. As if to drive home his humiliation, he finds himself staring into the smirking picture of Cadman.

Well, that would be confirmation that he is, in fact, in the medbay. Carson had never really struck him as the type to hang big pictures of his girlfriends around his workplace, but, then again, the good doctor was dating -Cadman-. Who could blame him for having a life size pinup?

And then the picture winked at him, and sing-songed, "You're staring."

He manages, while considering the fact that he is either suffering from a serious head injury or she is actually in front of him, to choke out, "Excuse me?" He wonders, in the back of his mind, while he watches her poke around the drawers in the room, where the woman that was swearing earlier went. Strands of Cadman's pale hair have escaped from her ponytail, and fall like strings of light around her face. Her lips are curled up in the corners, and he realizes with sudden clarity that it was her swearing. And he should have realized that before. He shakes himself.

She meets his eyes again, "You. Are. Staring. At. Me."

And he is. And he can only now pray that she is a hallucination and that soon he will wake up and none of this will have happened. His eyes drift away from her damning smile, down to her hands, and it is then that he finally realizes that she is bleeding. He says, "You're bleeding," and blames the pointlessness of the statement on his head injury. She grins at him.

"I reopened a cut from a mission last week." She shrugs, and the movement fascinates him far more than he is comfortable with. "I can't find a needle anywhere." She kicks the nearest file cabinet, ignoring him as he gingerly gets off the bed and reaches into a cabinet above her head, his hand coming back with a case full of tiny sharp needles. There is thread in her uninjured hand, and he takes it from her, motions impatiently towards a bed. She looks at him, eyes shaded, and says, "What?"

"I'm a doctor. You know..." He makes vague, stabbing motions with the packet of needles, and she looks at him bemusedly.

"Not a medical doctor," she says it with a quick grin, but relents towards the bed nonetheless. He thinks, she's right, I'm not. But he has patched up Sheppard and Teyla, and even Ford once upon a time, more often than he likes to remember. John had heard doctor and assumed that the medical part was a given. She sinks onto the bed, bounces on it once and then flops onto her back. He is aware that he is staring again, and wonders faintly if his mouth has fallen open.

He is aware that she is beautiful.

In fact, it is one of the most clear, powerful, things that he has ever known. Beautiful. Beautiful hair, beautiful lips, beautiful skin, body...with, with, curves, and... He dimly hears the packet of needles clatter loudly to the floor, as he becomes suddenly engrossed in examining the strip of bare skin between her shirt and pants, and the tiny tattoo peeking out of her waistband. He knows he has no business looking at her like this, no right to be thinking the thoughts streamlining themselves through his mind.

Soft laughter makes him look at her in the eye as she props herself up on her elbows. She looks amused and rumpled, and motions him closer with her uninjured hand. He leans forward, oddly spellbound, and she keeps motioning till he has to reach over her and brace his arm on the bed by her hip. He is uncomfortably aware of their proximity, of her beneath him, of her lips as she says, "You're staring."

She stretches upward, places a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Rodney's mind is, for the first time he can remember, quiet.

She pulls back just a bit, stares up at him, and for the first time since he has met her she looks uncertain. And then that looks is gone, and she crushes her lips into his, her uninjured arm climbing up around his neck. His mind is still puzzlingly silent, and he kisses her back, feels his hand sliding to her hip without any conscious direction.

"It might be prudent to move to a more private location."

Teyla is looking bemused, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched and what might be the beginnings of a smile on her lips. Rodney is numbly aware that he just got caught kissing another man's lover, that said lover is even now stroking the hair at the base of his neck, and is close enough that her breasts are brushing against his chest each time she breathes. His brain is getting loud again, and he pulls away, feeling suddenly guilty and very, very, uncomfortable.

He brushes past Teyla, mumbling to himself as he makes his way desperately towards a cold shower, and possibly, a mind wipe of the last week.


End file.
